Halloween Poems 3

gathering

Wizard

The
Wizard’s
Lizard eyes see
Sorcery become
Debauchery when
Potions turn
Emotions to the
Must of
Lust and
Maids are
Laid without
Love

Succubus

This
Succubus,
Incredulous, asks
When her
Men’s
Tombs will house
Wombs, and the
Coitus in death’s
Somnus be as
Virile and
Fertile for a
Miss

These ‘Halloween’ poems come from a self-produced collection of many years ago – the first three I posted today were used with students and made more innocuous in comparison with the others. It should be obvious.

I was experimenting with frontal rhyming at the time. I have no idea of this is an established expression.

The wonderful cover illustration was done by a student I taught at the time, ES.

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Halloween Poems 2

Incubus

Your
Incubus, like a
Calculus, will
Measure sex as
Treasure
But gloats too in
Ruts and grunts
Through sleepers it
Screws leaving a
Wild
Child in
Store

 

Troll

These
Trolls, they’re as
Droll as the
Grumps their
Humps induce;
Grim
Grins cannot
Hide their
Snide looks or the
Rejection (and
Dejection) everyone
Sees

 

Changeling

Those
Changelings, they’re
Strange things,
Fakes who
Take
All in the
Pall of death,
Steal children’s
Real selves
Leaving just the
Grieving that
Grows

Halloween Poems 1

Witches

Try
Witches with evil
Twitches, always
Brooming for
Zooming, dressing
Black to
Smack you at
Night and suck
Fright from
Faces without
Traces in blank
Eyes.

 

Vampires

With
Vampires it
Transpires that on a
Fang they
Hang small
Specks from torn
Necks where
Blood like a
Flood leaves
Dots as the
Spots of death’s
Pith.

 

Ghosts

Take
Ghosts, they’re
Hosts to their own
Haunting,
Wanting
Attention for the
Retention of their
Myth, as
If they
Existed, these
Twisted
Fakes.

Our Halloween

Razorblades inside the popcorn balls, LSD secreted in the
candy – here was the other horror story on Halloween
back in the 60s where kids in white sheets and carrying
paper sacks instead walked neighbourhoods safely
without parents and in the certain hope of bulging bags
filled with a different kind of deadly.

So much older and no longer there,
I wonder at those same streets now: escorts with guns
who might shoot anyone not giving because this is our
ritual; checking for messages on the inside of wrappers [like
calls to worship a different god]; strange scared faces at curtains
ignorant about years of these festivities and the dangers we can
imagine but at least call American, or subliminals unlike ours
about sugar and the other sweet certainties of who we are.

Nebraska 21 – ‘Chords’ by Carl Sandburg

IN the morning, a Sunday morning, shadows of sea and adumbrants of rock in her eyes … horseback in leather boots and leather gauntlets by the sea.

In the evening, a Sunday evening, a rope of pearls on her white shoulders … and a speaking, brooding black velvet, relapsing to the voiceless … battering Russian marches on a piano … drive of blizzards across Nebraska.

Yes, riding horseback on hills by the sea … sitting at the ivory keys in black velvet, a rope of pearls on white shoulders.

‘Orgy’ by Edwin Morgan

orgy

I used to be able to recite this whole poem, and to do so for a class of students or any individual would draw immediate, incredulous looks at the performance. Understandable. It happened the other night, not that I could remember the poem completely, but I conveyed the gist, and explained the storyline my flagging memory could not deliver as originally intended.

It is a brilliant concrete poem, using a ‘grid’ of letters and from this restricted, defined parameter constructing a story of a gluttonous anteater who, having spotted a substantial meal, eats and is sated, but blissfully so.

I think it was this and other similar playful poems written by the great Edwin Morgan that initiated my interest in concrete poetry, and over many years of teaching I introduced this poem and its structural idea to students who wrote their engaging own. I have also used similar ideas with my experimental writing.

Sausages

I buy Mantel’s Wolf Hall from one of the two
charity shops I visit today looking for second
hand books or vinyl, a tome so large it has to
displace the wholemeal tin loaf purchased a few
minutes earlier at the bakery – butcher’s chorizo
bangers secured in another compartment of the
rucksack. On both those recycling reading shelves
was a single and stolen copy of John Steinbeck’s
Of Mice and Men, this year’s exam over, and there
will never be the need again to read for study so the
school like each discarding student can care less if
future generations know about George and Lennie,
how dreams are futile, loneliness, why it’s the girls
objectified, if there’s any meaning to sausage curls.